Observations from Kate Wadkins ‘11

“I quit punk like eight times,” Mimi Nguyen confessed to a full auditorium at Sarah Lawrence College’s 12th Annual Women’s History Conference, The Message Is in the Music: Hip-Hop Feminism, Riot Grrrl, Latina Music & More, recollecting her contentious relationship with punk rock. As the first panel of the morning opened up, the groggy, packed audience, composed of women of all ages and ilk, quickly awoke to Nguyen’s sharp wit and powerful presence. For the plenary panel, Fiona Ngo and Mimi Nguyen, both assistant professors at the University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign, discussed grassroots punk scenes and the dynamics of race within these scenes. A third panelist, Sarah Lawrence alumna Christa D’Angelica, presented on what she termed a “second wave” of riot grrrl that traversed from zine(1) pages to dial-up modems in the late 1990s.

The Message Is in the Music was a fairly radical idea: rather than presenting the typical trope of “women in music”, the conference took a deeper look by tabling questions like, “How does music reflect sites of agreement and conflict among different groups of feminists?” and, “How do young feminists’ uses of music compare with those of earlier generations?” Situating hip-hop, riot grrrl, and Latina music on the same agenda, the conference offered a queering of categories that is rare for most dialogues on feminism in music. In her book Check it While I Wreck It: Black Womanhood, Hip-Hop Culture, and the Public Sphere, hip-hop feminist Gwendolyn D. Pough defines the term “bringing wreck” as a way to describe Black women’s many methods of disrupting oppression and representation. In a way, it is a hip-hop feminist approach to queering, or exploring “the ways in which meaning and identity is (inter)textually (re)produced” via cultural artifacts.(2) The Message Is in the Music brought wreck to the idea that music movements like hip-hop, riot grrrl, and Latina music do not exist in conversation with one another; it brought wreck to the fact that each of these movements is usually associated primarily with one racial group. Indeed, the conference’s inclusive policy—panelists are encouraged from all disciplines, regardless of academic background—brought wreck to traditional scholarly practices.

On the plenary panel, Fiona Ngo took us to the first wave of punk; the 1970s in Los Angeles, CA. Ngo, a historian, falls into a recent trend of “feminist cultural geographers” that observe the economic, social, and political landscapes surrounding cultural phenomena. This concept wasn’t made completely clear to the audience, and it came up during the Q&A session. It seems to mean focusing on one location—observing migration to and from there, as well as the place’s social, economic, political, and historical conditions, and how they came to be.

Punk rock, as well as riot grrrl, has traditionally been viewed as a movement by and for white suburbanites. Ngo, on the contrary, discussed the multiracial landscape of punk in Los Angeles that came to be via the de-industrialization of the city and subsequent white flight to the suburbs.(3) As the audience laughed along with Ngo’s warm demeanor and choice to play songs for us “just because I can,” we yearned to learn more about this cultural moment, finding The Go-Go’s practicing in the basement of a multiracial tenement in the mid 1970s.

Nguyen critically analyzed the riot grrrl movement, a girl-fronted punk rock movement of the 1990s, by offering that race was often a “stumbling block” for its participants, as well as for the authors of riot grrrl history. Riot grrrl has been gaining a lot of attention in 2010, starting with the donation of the Kathleen Hanna Papers to New York University’s new Riot Grrrl Collection at the Fales Library.(4) Nguyen brought wreck in a big way, complicating the overwhelming riot grrrl nostalgia flooding blogs internationally by critiquing white privilege in the movement. Nguyen has written for punk publications (most extinct at this point) like Punk Planet and Maximum Rocknroll on this very subject.

Nguyen criticized riot grrrl’s “aesthetics of access” or “aesthetics of intimacy”: an emphasis on the personal that permeated through song lyrics and homemade zines essentially defining the movement. She pulled zines from her archive and projected them on a huge screen in front of the audience, so that the riot grrrl aesthetic could be easily understood by anyone in attendance. This “aesthetic of access,” access to “the secret hearts of girls,” as Nguyen said, became a site for white guilt, among other things. While observing these zines that served as confessionals, one finds white folks addressing issues of race by telling stories about how perhaps their friend told them to be concerned about it. In this brief mention of race, the white author then feels relieved of any reason to critically analyze their privilege; they are automatically seen as absolved. White zinesters (zine authors) would proclaim their lack of friends of color in this same method of absolution-by-admission. Perhaps more importantly, Nguyen highlights another way that the “aesthetic of intimacy” may have been problematic for people of color who did, or would have wanted to, participate in the movement: would the riot grrrl of color have to function as a “representative of the race”?

Nguyen’s comment about “quitting punk” illustrated the way many marginalized people feel within white dominated movements. Women, people of color, and queer folks alike have written extensively about how punk rock can be completely isolating to them. On the other hand, with its do-it-yourself ethos, punk rock offers the tools for positive things like grassroots organizing and creative self-expression. The potential for social change within punk and riot grrrl creates a tension: the simultaneous acceptance of marginalized folks within the subculture versus its constant re-creation of social hierarchies.

Nguyen brought wreck in yet another way, by commenting on the tendency of feminist history to relegate women of color feminisms as “interruptions” to a narrative, as a brief moment of crisis that is criticized, learned from, and left behind. One of her major points is that “how we narrate the interventions of women of color is crucial to how we remember feminisms and imagine our futures.” I nodded along with my classmate, and could feel the room around me brimming with interest, questions, and an overwhelming sense of urgency: Nguyen’s argument speaks to our sense of history and feminist frameworks.

This idea of “how we remember feminisms and imagine our futures” was crucial to the conference itself. By bringing a plurality of feminist elements in music together—Hip Hop Feminism, Riot Grrrl, Latina Music & More—the conference allowed us to remember these feminisms together, and in conversation with one another. The conference’s policy to include a multitude of voices as well as this radical re-situation of feminism in music allowed for a new narrative to be constructed. The Message Is in the Music, and we as feminists must be sure to listen.

Observations from Thea Michailides

Gwendolyn Pough, in Check it While I Wreck It, describes how Black women have historically fought for access and agency in the public sphere through “a variety of expressive cultures and in so doing laid the groundwork for a Black feminist tradition.” The recent Sarah Lawrence College Women’s History Conference, The Message Is in the Music, exemplified this legacy. I had a unique perspective on the conference from the vantage point of a worker. My task was to check in conference attendees, make sure each had a folder and a nametag, and take money if they had signed up for lunch. The act of registering was a fairly regularized activity. As such it offered me the chance to meet each person under very nearly the same conditions and take note of the manner in which they interacted with me and with fellow conference participants. Everyone I met, without exception, was polite and agreeable, even when told the tickets for lunch were no longer being sold. The women, who were clearly in the majority among attendees, spoke of how excited they were to be able to attend the conference. They clearly felt that the event created an opportunity to establish a sense of solidarity and support through cooperation, education, coordination, and activism; bridging geographical, racial, ethnic, and socioeconomic differences. I had the great fortune to watch this happen among participants while they drank coffee, shared lunch, and indulged in pizza.

Attendees and panelists were not a homogeneous group; some came from as far as Norway, others from the campus community itself. The conference, The Message Is in the Music: Hip-Hop Feminism, Riot Grrrl, Latina Music & More, was described in the promotional flyer as offering the opportunity to “explore the ways in which young feminists have defined and expressed politics through music and musical cultures and communities.” It was hoped that this theme would encourage young people from inside and outside the Sarah Lawrence College community to attend. This strategy was successful. The average participant seemed to be in their late 30s to early 40s, though there were a number of more mature women and men. This older generation clearly distinguished themselves by their extensive organizing experience and tireless activism. They were also eager to share strategies and ideas with young feminists.

From the registration table, during the Friday night opening and all day Saturday during the panels, I witnessed the interactions of couples, friends, and groups as they strategized over how best to experience the event. Both women and men came independently, and as couples of all varieties. While some were clearly there out of mutual interest, most of the men who attended with a girlfriend or wife seemed to be there in a supporting role. For a few of these men the event seemed to generate some unease. They dealt with this in one of several ways, some through humor, but most either stood in uncomfortable silence behind their female companion or acted withdrawn, even petulant. The uniqueness of being in the minority, as a man, could be part of what inspired such behavior. Of the men I registered who were there with a female companion; the majority of them were silent during the entire registration process and most had their female partner fill out their forms and nametag.

I was conflicted over the significance of the behavior of these men coupled with the response it initiated from the women they were accompanying. While I see the discomfort some of these men demonstrated as a potentially positive opportunity for them to experience some fraction of the marginalization that women feel, I am also concerned with the responses that were initiated in the women by the behavior of the men. Will these men recognize their petulance and silence as manipulation in the face of an unfamiliar situation or will the women need to first acknowledge that their reactions are enabling the controlling, passive-aggressive behavior?

As a graduate student in the Women’s History Program at a school with Sarah Lawrence’s demographics, being a part of a predominantly female community is commonplace. Despite this, there was an energy generated by the conference that went beyond just being a member of the majority. I think the reactions of some of the men, along with their presence, enhanced feelings of solidarity. There did not seem to be any self-censorship amongst the women for the benefit of the men.

Certainly most of the men I spoke with were there because of their interest in the subject and their support for the issues and concerns of women. However, observing how men—Black and white—reacted to a very visible female majority suggests that, while this was a public event the discourse that was engaged in has not yet crossed into the popular consciousness or the public sphere. This is demonstrated by the fact that the dynamics between many men and women in their everyday lives has not changed significantly.

In a circuitous way this returns us to Pough and an examination of the potential for pop culture and music, such as hip-hop and rap, to disseminate and promote positive images for and the concerns of women. In reflecting how hip-hop and rap can be appropriated by Black women as an instructive tool, Pough writes: “… Feminism needs to come down from its ivory tower. Young Black women, like it or not, are getting their life lessons from rap music … there are many ways that Black feminism can work with hip-hop.” This is illustrative of the idea that, for real change to occur, the materials of popular culture must become infused with attitudes that promote women and normalize gender parity without condescension.

A member of my cohort, in reflecting on the conference, suggested that too much differentiation may be inhibiting women and preventing men from experiencing real equality, respect, and acceptance. He used the example of basketball versus ‘women’s’ basketball and humorously commented that such descriptions suggest that the former is “in its natural state, without women.” What are the benefits and costs of qualifying an activity, behavior, or action as ‘women’s’ this or ‘women’s’ that? This same member of my cohort felt that the way the conference was characterized by some as a place for women to discuss issues that were relevant to their experiences and concerns made him feel unwelcome. Was this what had caused those other men at the registration table who came with their girlfriends or wives to appear withdrawn and uncomfortable? Is it important to define a space that is exclusive to women for there to be honest, open discourse? If so, does this simply perpetuate male-female binaries? Who is adding these qualifiers to activities like basketball? I doubt that it is the women who are playing but suspect it is the men who fear their status and masculinity will be undermined if there is no descriptor before the activity. Does this mean that creating spaces for women is, unintentionally, doing the same thing? Public spaces have been and still are defined on male terms and thus create, even if only subtly, a sense for women that they are not welcome.

Even in the relatively new world of hip-hop culture and rap music, ‘male’ is clearly the default. Pough describes it as often “marginalizing, and oppressing anyone who is not Black, straight, and male, and dripping with testosterone.” I would contend that such a description could be accurately applied to many spheres; institutions, activities, behah conference at Sarah Lawrence. The brief discomfort and awkwardness some of the men may have felt is as important as the ease and unity that was palpable among the women. While it is regrettable that some men may be discouraged by this atmosphere, I hope that if their convictions and feminism is sincere, they will see its potential as an educational tool.